


it’s out of my hands (and over my head)

by sunbean72



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Harold Finch and John Reese Relationship, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt John Reese, Hurt/Comfort, POV Harold Finch, Protective Harold Finch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25768675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbean72/pseuds/sunbean72
Summary: my friend and I were discussing one of my favorite shows (spacemutineer also happens to be my favorite fic writer for this series) and they encouraged me to write something about them. This is that attempt :) and it’s not a very plotty fic, mostly character study, a coda for how they bridged the gap from being co-workers who relied on each other to friends who trusted each other completely. This would take place sometime early on in season one after John was shot but before Carter and Fusco are a trusted part of the team; maybe circa Wolf and Cub when John is still having Fusco try and find out about Finch and Finch is still very secretive about his past.Title from “break my fall” by doc robinsonIt’s out of my hands and over my headwhether i go or whether you staybut we’ll still ache either wayfirst i pull you in then i push you awayi give so high i fall on my bladebut i don’t know another way
Relationships: Harold Finch & John Reese
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacemutineer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemutineer/gifts).



A long night, this one. Mr. Reese was on a stakeout, a task full of tedium they shared mostly in silence over the open cellphone bluetooth connection. There had been a time, early on, that he had left John to his own devises, somewhat, when it came to the numbers. It was an arrangement that had suited him during his partnership with Rick Dillinger as Finch had found some of Dillinger's methods to be less than palatable. With Mr. Reese, those days of working more or less separately together were long gone, however. For one, Finch had finally given up any pretense to having another job, which allowed him to spend his full time devoted to saving numbers. But also, too many times already John had nearly lost his life in their pursuit of protection, more than once because Finch hadn’t been able to warn John of impending danger in time. Their “troubling arragment” now meant that, whatever happened, they faced it more or less together which altogether seemed to work better. It meant a few nights like this, though, spent in anticipatory anxiety and extreme boredom.

There were things he could be doing besides woolgather but recent events were heavy on his mind and Finch was in the thoughtful mood. It began with a gruff note in John’s voice when he was checking in with him. It sent his thoughts down a path of contemplation; for all he claimed to know exactly everything about his partner, it wasn’t _precisely_ accurate.

Gather data and information. Observe the subject directly. Form a conclusion by combining facts to create knowledge. The three cornerstones of Finch’s operational model. It was true that The Machine had perfected that model, but he had taught it to her and wasn’t without some skill in it, perhaps even a level of expertise as he learned, in turn, from The Machine itself. Just as a skilled chess player could learn from a better opponent and still win the game, he had used his experiences to further his accuracy. Because it was true that his observational skills were sometimes found wanting. And his interpretation of data was occassional incorrect, leading to the wrong conclusion. But on the whole he was a decisive person who rarely second guessed himself. Mostly because he was usually right.

Data: Mr. Reese rarely smiled.

Observation: Even when he did smile, it even more rarely indicated he was happy. 

Conclusion: For such a closed off person as Mr. Reese, a smile was more indicative of his physical and even emotional and metal state than certain other physical indicators could be.

There was a particular cold smile that did not reach his eyes, for instance, that in itself meant nothing except that John was hiding his true feelings. It was a mask. A mask could be donned and doffed for any number of reasons. He didn’t quite have enough data and only a few observations for this particular smile. He’d seen it in the diner where John had met Carter, the first time after she’d gotten him shot and then promptly aided his escape from his would be assassins. It, in that case, may have meant he’d issued her a provisional trust, though Finch strongly disapproved at the time. He wasn’t as forgiving as John was of the good detective’s betrayal, but then he knew John often felt he deserved mistrust and betrayal and forgave others quickly for it for that reason. Finch did not harbor that particular bias and so he felt a more natural _anger_ and displeasure at her actions.

John had bestowed that particular smile on him at times as well when he could sense Finch’s equivocation or deliberate obsfucation. But it had become more rare lately. A new observation: John would smile with some bemused surprise when Finch would allow some small nugget of information to be communicated about his past, some sliver of some alias that nonetheless revealed an item of a _personal_ nature. A conclusion could be reached that the best way to win Mr. Reese’s trust was to bestow it. Which was a problem. A seemingly insurmountable one, at times, given his own penchant for secrecy that stretched back longer years than even John’s long history of it. Nearly his entire life. It would not be easy now to change such an entrenched habit, even with intention.

The time would come, soon, where John would realize they couldn't continue on together unless he could trust him. Not the wary, provisional-until-I-learn-more trust he so grudgingly bestowed and would, given the smallest reason, quickly withdraw. Finch tried to never try that trust more than he must. He had promised never to lie, and that was true. John was very intelligent, however, and was quickly understanding the unspoken caveat to that, which was, if he couldn't speak the truth he simply would withhold it. That may suffice, at first, but as time went on. No doubt it would not longer be enough, for John.

Soon, _I have my reasons_ would not be enough, for John. He would want to, he would _need_ to know more about Finch, certainly more than he was willing to tell him. Finch would be forced to decide; he either must disclose more about himself or choose to remain almost entirely private and part ways with John Reese. That was once an abstract idea he contemplated with reluctance, but he found as he got to know the man it would certainly be a _painful_ process to be seperated from him. Yet. Finch didn’t hide his past out of mistrust or need. It was part of who he was, a very difficult part to change, almost as innate as eye color.

A small noise over the phone caught his attention, briefly, as the fragile silence was punctuated by a door opening and closing. He waited; John said nothing and there was no further sound, indicating another false alarm. A small exhalation of breath; it could have been a sigh, and Finch thought back briefly to the numerous injuries John had sustained that day as he worked the case. It could have been a sigh of disappointment, furstration, or purely boredom, but there was one other alternative. John was injured and the sigh was the only relief he afforded himself.

Data: Mr. Reese would often, not exactly hide, but deliberately downplay injuries. He was adept at hiding signs that he was in pain by denying himself some of the physical movements that could relieve pain, such as holding himself carefully, decreasing movement speed, resting. Finch realized that John had had extensive training in resisting pain, and yet he still could not fathom, himself, how he managed with such apparent ease to ignore pain. He, himself, having experienced excruciating pain on a much less frequent basis, couldn’t manage it even for those comparatively brief times. While it increased his respect and even admiration for Mr. Reese’s skills, he also acknowledged that it did cause him pain and upset on a personal level to know that there were times his friend needed relief from pain and he never knew about it to provide that relief.

“Mr. Reese?” he queried softly. 

“What is it, Finch?”

“Nothing, apologies.” Only to hear the tone of his voice. His senses being restricted, often, to hearing only, he fancied himself capable of diciphering by pitch and tone what John was experiencing. John could, of course, mask his voice if he chose, but people, even very capable people, had perhaps less control over this aspect of behavior than others. He, himself, was sometimes self-betrayed that way.

“Are you sure everything is all right, Finch?”

Ah. Case in point, that. Not by the tone of his voice, this time, which he felt had been perfectly polite and calm. It was merely by asking a question at all that Finch had betrayed himself and caught John’s attention. A note of concern was there; naturally. A bare thread of suspicion as well, probably knowing Finch would not be likely to truthfully answer that question if the issue was of a personal nature. 

“I was merely assuring the connection was still secured, Mr. Reese; it’s been so quiet I thought I might have lost you.”

There was a moment of silence and Finch was careful to make sure his own sigh was inaudible. Betrayed by his own words _again_ in the span of mere moments, but he was only betraying his true feelings to himself. _I thought I might have lost you._

John had some knowledge that Finch had been searching for him for some time before Carter had run his prints and alerted him that he’d been located. Finch had told him as much on their first meeting. But, given John’s compromised mental, physical, and emotional state, it was doubtful that he’d processed what that actually _meant,_ and probably had little idea just how trying those months had been. From February when he’d had a bare moment encounter at the hospital when John had learned of Jessica’s death until nearly the end of March when Carter had found him, he’d only been able to trace John’s movements enough to connect him to Peter Arndt’s dissappearance and after that he was just... gone.

Gone enough, in any case; out of his reach entirely. There had been a few heartbreaking and deeply upsetting exceptions when the face recognition algorithm would alert him, always too late to do anything about it, that John had been spotted somewhere or another. A private investigator had even managed to get him a few pictures before John became aware of him and gave him the slip quite easily as was his habit. He had lost and found John Reese half a dozen times before he finally spoke to him, and he realized he was lucky and John was impaired or he wouldn’t have had even those small successes.

Success was hardly the word. He could clearly mark the deterioration as time passed. At first, Finch had feared that he’d been more injured from the bullet wound inflicted by his ex-CIA partner than Finch had realized; perhaps an infection or some other complication. But no, the wound healed. Not quickly, and not painlessly, given the terrible punishment John put his body through by not seeking medical attention or attending to even basic hygiene and nutritional needs. Yet John had been in prime condition before that, and the wound did heal, but health didn’t return, not vigour. He was a shell of a man, haunted and haunting. Very clearly to Finch’s careful research, he was slowly killing himself. 

_I know you’ve spent the last couple of months trying to drink yourself to death. I know your contemplating more efficient ways to do it._

How many times? How many instances was Finch blissfullly unaware of during that two months that a supremely capable man such as John Reese had _nearly_ been entirely loss to his help? Moments on a bridge or building or the familiar and friendly feel of a gun in his hand with a bullet that could end the pain and darkness that had all but consumed him?

“I’m still here Finch,” John said in answer to his response, pulling Finch out of his morbid and guilty thoughts. It was never not frightening, realizing and remembering how close he’d come to not saving John, and thereby all the numbers they ever did or would save in the future.

_You see, knowledge is not my problem. Doing something with that knowledge..._

“Yes of course,” Finch responded absently.

Finch didn’t fool himself that John’s suicidal tendencies were magically disappeared because he had a job and a purpose, though it had helped. Certainly the necessity of curtailing his drinkinng habit had helped as well. But Finch, as perceptive as he was, could not escape the fact that there were times that John displayed what might be construed as bravery also had a faint hint of _recklessness,_ and unconcern for his own safety. Perhaps to the point that John’s intentions had not changed, only his methods. Far from being able to congratulate himself on being able to pull John away from the precipice, Harold could only offer him the occassional steadying hand and could only hope it didn’t inadvertently send him over the edge—and take Harold with him, actually, because he wasn’t 100% sure he would be able to carry on if he lost another partner. Even at this early juncture in their partnership, Finch could not imagine replacing John. Couldn’t imaging... losing John.

But the continued risk John posed to himself was not unexpected. Finch was aware that John needed more than a purpose. He needed hope, he needed faith; that is, something to believe in since he was so terribly disillusioned by the government and in his personal life. The knowledge he held now was that John _needed_ to trust Finch and Finch needed to trust and be trusted by John. He even had the rare advantage that, even without John’s help, he knew what to do with it. Whether or not he was capable of it was another question.

“Any sign of our number, Mr. Reese?”

“No sign of Smith yet, but the lights are starting to go out. I’m expecting he may be out in the next little while here.”

“What will you do?” Finch asked, still caught up in his own musings over his partner’s future.

“I’ll make sure he gets home safe, Finch,” John said quietly reassuring, as always, as he answered Finch’s query. Finch hadn’t needed to ask to know as much. John could be thouroughly relied upon in that way, to do whatever was needed to keep the victims safe.

“Finch,” John breathed quietly a moment later. “Something’s wrong. I just heard a crash.”

Finch sat up straight in anticipation, not anxious yet; a crash meant a fight of some sort, almost certainly John would be there in time to save Mr. Smith from the vengeful drug dealer that had been plotting against him for the last three days. He followed John’s actions through the sounds picked up over the cell phone connection—

The break of a door caving to the pressure John applied with a shoulder or a kick. The sound of heavy footfalls as John ran. Shortly thereafter, the sound of a surprised and angry exclamation and someone, Mr. Smith it seemed, pleading for help. There was the now familiar sounds of a scuffle; John wasn’t wasting words with the perpetrator.

Finch felt his heart rate tick up as the fight went on; it was not as typically short-lived as he’d come to expect. There were longer pauses between punches being thrown as both men were getting tired. There was a sudden exclamation of surprise followed by the sound of a crash, glass breaking, and then another crash. 

“Mr. Reese? John, are you all right?” Finch demanded. “John!”

But there returned no answer. Finch was already moving toward the door as fast as his uneven gait would allow, a rational part of his brain evaluating the situation and mentally reviewing the plans he had in place for just such a situation, John injured, but there was another part of his brain he couldn’t shut off no matter how it terrified him. Data: the sounds he heard were most consistent with a fall, one from a significant height given that John had gone up at least two flights of stairs, maybe more. Observation: John had no answered him and there was no sound at all coming from the other end of the line. Conclusion: John was, at the very least, unconscious and therefore injured, perhaps severely. Perhaps more than severely. A fall from that high was more enough to kill someone if they landed wrong.

“John!” Finch tried again. And again, and again, but on the other end there was only silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, hope you enjoy :)

Finch stared down at his unconscious partner, trying to process data, perform observation, and form a conclusion. But he could not.

He was too tired. 

The Machine, fortunately, never was, he understood that now. Strange how sleep deprivation shut his mind down in so many ways but seemed to open it to more creative, though worthless, ideas. His thoughts, which hit a wall of incomprehension when trying to think in terms of numbers, data, probablity, slid through the cracks in that wall like a mist when he tried to contemplate love, and memory, and the meaning of thought and what it meant to heal. But, scattered like that mist in a breeze, his thoughts gravitated toward darkness and weren’t doing him a particular good.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Harold, if you don’t get into bed right now, I’m going to have to sedate you,” Dr. Tillman said with a firm gentleness. He blinked slowly and offered her a small half smile.

“Yes, I understand your concern, doctor,” he replied, not bothering to keep the tiredness ouf of his voice when it was so abundantly clear in other ways. He paused before glancing up at her again then looking away. “I had hoped to be with him when he woke up.” 

His stomache twisted and filled with anxious nausea as he recalled finding John, laying on a pile of shattered glass, in a limp and unmoving heap two stories below where the dark hole of the broken window was. Their number, Mr. Smith, had been with him, trying to render aid but not wanting to call the police knowing his own recent behavior would get him locked up, perhaps for a long while. The perpetrator had fled so Finch enlisted Mr. Smith to help him carefully move John into the back seat of the car. After that he’d given Mr. Smith a sizeable sum of money and told him he should leave town on the next flight out, it was the best he could do under the circumstances, he could only hope it would be enough until he could enlist one of the detectives to assist in locating their drug dealer. 

On the way to one of the safehouses that he knew to be well equipped with medical supplies, Finch had made the decision to call Dr. Tillman for help. He felt a distinct uneasiness on that count; he knew how disappointed John would be when he found out. There was some kind of unspoken agreement between them that no matter how much they came to care for the numbers during the course of their investigations, they would not attempt to contact them again. For everyone’s safety.

Well, if Ms. Morgan could be an exception because of her skills, so could Dr. Tillman, John would have to try to understand. 

“Harold?”

She slid a hand across his shoulders, her eyes alight with sympathy. Harold held very still. It was rare, yes, very rare that anyone touched him and then only briefly. Her gentle and compassionate touch nearly brought him to tears. He tried and failed to smile. “Come on,” she coaxed. “Go get a little sleep. I’ll stay up with him. I have a ton of charting to catch up on with my laptop.”

He winced. She caught his meaning and smiled. “Okay, no computers that connect to a network, right?”

“That would be ideal,” he said apologetically. 

“Then I can catch up on some reading. Come on.” Seeing that she was not going to let it be and realizing he was no match for her persistent kindness, he allowed her to pull him to standing and tried not to collapse against her when she slipped an arm under his to support him. 

“Thank you, doctor,” he said. “Please will you—?”

“Wake you if anything changes or he wakes up?” She nodded and gave him a reassuring smile.

A little bit of rest would surely benefit him, it was true. But it was also true that he felt far too worried to rest, no matter how exhausted. The exertion of moving John had also caused some physical stress; he’d tweaked his back and it ached with dull, insistent pain. He dry swallowed a pain pill hoping it would kick in and allow him rest before it was time to be awake again. 

The aching pain in his back kept him awake and his mind wandered back to the graphic scene he’d witnessed when he’d finally got to John. In disconcerting detail he remembered walking up as quickly as he was able but reluctant in the extreme, afraid he was walking up to find his friend and partner dead.

He had walked up to him and knelt beside him. John was lying on his back, his face relaxed which made him look somehow younger, he didn’t realize how much tension John held in his face until it was erased by unconsciousness and he was pale and too still, his skin sliced from the glass with mulitiple wounds seeping the bright crimson of a fresh wound. Mr. Smith was nowhere to be found, somehow. The darkness around them pervaded, and, strangely, warped and twisted with a red tint. He reached for John’s neck to feel for a pulse, hardly aware of where to start to stabilize his terrible injuries; Finch shuddered as if a spider were crawling over his hand as he realized he’d been kneeling in a pool of blood.

Then he noticed that John not only had trauma from the fall and lacerations from the window, but also oozing bullet holes. His skin lacerated with deep and pervasive cuts, bloody wounds that went to the bone. Finch realized with dawning horror that John was much more injured than he’d realized, how? How was it this bad? He looked like he’d been maimed in an explosion.

Harold started treating the wounds with supplies he had on hand. Yet it seemed pointless, futile; when he addressed one wound, it was only to find another, and another, and the blood seemed more than was humanly possible. It soon covered Harold’s hands, his wrists, his arms; it covered his neat and meticulous suit. He refused to give up and kept putting pressure, more pressure, on the bleeding wounds.

Unexpectedly John woke and grabbed his wrist in a terrible, painful grasp, his blue eyes stabbing into Finch’s soul with a cold, icy judgment. No, John would never hurt him, but he was, he was hurt and he was hurting, wounded, and wounding him—

“You did this,” he said, his voice low and menacing, a voice Finch had heard many times in his ear when John was confronting some of the most decrepit vestiges of humanity but never directed at himself until that moment, and the red darkness around them congealed and Harold felt fear mounting to terror, a feeling that clawed and suffocating, he was powerless against it, and John’s other hand, bloodied and broken, reached up and wrapped around Finch’s neck with impossible strength, an inexorable pressure, a terrible echo of their meeting in the hotel room where he’d made John listen to the tape of the poor murdered woman and John had put an arm across his throat then, but it was _precisely_ enough pressure to make him uncomfortable but not harm him. He was harmed, now, his throat closed—

“Harold! Mr. Finch, please wake up!” Dr. Tillman’s urgent voice broke through the nightmare. The nightmare disappeared with waking, but not the fear, it lingered. Sweating, shaking, and embarrassed, Finch couldn’t stifle the groan of pain sitting up evoked but he welcomed the mind-clearing effect the familiar hurt brought.

“I’m fine,” he said sharply as Dr. Tillman opened her mouth to speak. She closed it, swallowing her words but unable to erase the concern she felt. 

“Nightmare,” she said without asking. She watched him with a furrowed brow. “I could—“

Finch was angry now; it had been foolish, after all, to involve Dr. Tillman. “I said I’m fine,” he said in a quiet, final tone, a cold look of anger harshly slamming a wall between them. She swallowed again and nodded, disappointed. 

“Uh, um,” she stuttered, embarrassed now herself. “It’s John. I think he’s waking up.”

Finch stood up carefully, glancing at his wrist watch. Three hours had passed. He felt slightly more rested, but not ready to wake up, like sand was in his eyes. His heart was still pounding from the nightmare and he forced himself to breathe deeply in an attempt to slow it. He followed Dr. Tillman to where John was convalescing. He was confused a moment as John was, to all appearances, still unconscious, but then he noticed John’s breathing had changed; his leg moved slightly, his head turned on the pillow. 

Finch walked over, anxiously watching, dreading this moment almost as much as he hoped for it, fearful that John had suffered a severe head injury and the terrifying negative effects of it were about to be revealed. 

John’s eyes fluttered open, his hold on consciousness tenuous at best. Unfocused a moment, the awareness of pain came first as evidenced by the furrowed brow, the lines around his eyes and mouth deepening in the portrait of pain. Finch watched then as John’s face changed, became alert, ignoring as he so often did his own pain and discomfort and a look of concern or fear crossed his features.

“It’s all right, John,” Finch said quickly, stepping into his partner’s line of sight. 

John had started to sit up, and even this small movement upset his tolerance to the pain and John groaned against it, raising his hand to his head screwing up his eyes and keeping them tightly closed.

‘What happened, Finch?”

“Can’t you remember?”

John shook his head warily, just a small wrinkle deepening between his eyebrows to indicate the increased discomfort even the small motion had evoked..

“You were injured when you fell from a second story window,” Dr. Tillman said very softly. John’s eyes flew open and immediately sought the young doctor.

“Megan,” he said, shocked. He turned a reproachful gaze to Finch, who bowed his head in acceptance of the silent rebuke. 

“I know,” he murmured. “I didn’t know what else to do.” 

John pressed his lips tightly together and looked away from them. Dr. Tillman walked around the side of the bed, forcing John to look at her again. She reassured him with a look of compassion and understanding. She reached out and took his hand, as he had once hers. “It’s all right,” she told him calmly and Finch, as grateful as he was, felt a sharp stab of jealousy that her professional role and rapport with John was such that she could just... reach out. And give and recieve comfort. Finch tried to remember the last time he’d received any touch beyond casual contact before her gentleness earlier and he couldn’t quite remember. Some time ago.

Something unspoken passed between the doctor and her patient that made John drop his shoulders just slightly. There was some sort of unassailable bond between the two, the savior and the saved each to each other in different ways, in more ways than one even.

Dr. Tillman looked at her watch. “I have to get to the hospital. I can pick up some supplies. Pain?”

“I’m fine,” John replied and Dr. Tillman got a wry look on her face and rolled her eyes slightly. 

She turned to Finch. “Morphine,” she said, walking to the table and pulling out an ampule. “Already drawn up a in single doses. It’s critical we keep his pain controlled so his blood pressure stays down. If his blood pressure is high, it could increase his intercranial pressure and exacerbate his head injury which could lead to brain damage. Plus. I’m sure he hurts like hell.” She gave John a small frown. “Please let him do as I’ve asked, John.”

John blinked, presumably in acceptance because he didn’t gainsay her but to Finch it was less than reassuring. Dr. Tillman gave Finch an encouraging smile and tapped her hip where her pager was clipped to her belt, reminding him to call her if he became concerned as they had discussed.

Finch took a seat near the bed, busying himself with organizing some of the disarrayed medical items on the bedside tray. John had managed, perhaps with a purpose, to fall without shattering his bones or causing death. It may have been something he learned or picked up in his previous occupation, or maybe it was just a lucky coincidence. Despite the lack of life threatening injuries, John was still badly injured and would take time to fully recouperate. Finch blinked away the image from his nightmare of John’s broken and bloody body but it was not so easy to dismiss the feelings it evoked and he did his best to avoid the well of darkness the nightmare had no doubt sprung from. Dangerous ground, that.

He finally looked up to meet John’s gaze. “Ready for your morphine, Mr. Reese?”

“Are you asking because you’re allowing me a choice or politely informing me?”

“Mr. Reese, there’s something you should know about me. I won’t do anything to you physically without your express permission.” John raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise but evident reassurance as he relaxed slightly. Finch couldn’t not help but add with some asperity, “Though for someone who so readily tolerates the infliction of pain and injury upon his person from his enemies I admit I find it difficult to fathom _why_ you wouldn’t allow someone to administer medications that would aid your wellbeing, Mr. Reese!”

John let out a huff of amusement. “In all honesty Finch, if I start relying on someone to help me when I’m injured, it will make the next time when that person isn’t there much more difficult to cope with. It’s not wise, it’s not safe for me to rely on anyone else. It was foolish of you to come after me, it put you in danger.”

“I know it bothers you when I help you. I’m afraid you’ll have to learn to live with it if we are to continue our arrangement, I am sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I would much prefer that you wanted my help rather than fear it, you see, but what we want and what we fear aren’t always our choice.” 

John thought on that a moment then proffered his wrist where the IV was inserted. Finch slowly pushed the morphine so it wouldn’t sting. 

“We can’t always choose, but I can try. But please, Finch, don’t put yourself or anyone in danger for my sake.”

“As you’re well aware, I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety, let alone my own. But I can safely promised to do my best.”

John sank into the sophomoric effect of the narcotic but did not sleep; he seemed disturbed still and Finch knew he had his own wellsprings of darkness that he had not quite overcome. Moments of physical weakness for a man of action such as John were sure to stir up those difficult memories and emotions. 

“Can you drink some of this before you fall asleep? I’m sure the calories and protein content will aid your healing.”

John shook his head. “The morphine makes me sick.”

“I’m sure there’s an anti-nausea medication among these—“

“It’s all right Finch,” John said patiently without opening his eyes. “I won’t whither away in one day. I’ll try after I rest some more.”

“Of course.” Finch was used to feeling helpless, but it was not as easy to be so when there was a ready solution to the problem. He had to keep himself in check to not press the issue, knowing that it was not in John’s nature to seek his own comfort. Perhaps one day if John couldn’t seek comfort for himself, he would allow Carter or even him to administer it. Light a lamp on the path in the darkness, perhaps. Finch took a bracing, deep breath. He knew that if he wanted that someday, there was something he _could_ do about it now.

“My father was a birdwatcher,” he said with painful difficulty. “The names I use... there a way I can honor his memory.”

John did not acknowledge this for a moment and to him it must have seemed apropos of nothing. Finch regretted saying it, now, and hoped that perhaps John would just ignore his misguided attempt and poor offering.

“I’m sure he would appreciate the sentiment, Harold,” he replied, very softly, without opening his eyes and of course even in his compromised stated he had immediately understood Finch’s awkward overture. Even the small act of not looking at him, Finch winced at the kindness. When had kindnesses like these turn into painful things? Not the kindness, perhaps; but the intimacy it implied, the fact that John knew him so well when he’d offered him so little, it hurt. “I’m sure he’d be proud of you,” John added hesitantly.

A surprising lump in his throat; he’d chosen a topic too close to the bone after all. He’d thought after all this time it would be the _safer_ option compared to college, compared to Grace, to Nathan. “I’m... not really sure of that. He never liked the idea of an artificial intelligence. I’m afraid he was perhaps right that I got into something I shouldn’t.”

John opened his eyes now, more relaxed than previously but obviously skirting the edge of pain. The dose was probably not enough to truly make him comfortable with the extent of his injuries. “I’ll bet... if he knew. The lives you’ve saved. The... the people you’ve helped.” Ah, then the pain was not for himself. Empathetic to a fault.

“When I was a baby, taking me out to see the birds was the only thing that made me stop crying. I’ve been told I was a difficult baby,” he said wryly, evoking a shadow of a smile from John. “But I still find birdsong soothing.”

“You’re a true renaissance man, Finch. I didn’t know you knew much about birds. I kind of thought the only birds you’d encounter were pigeons.”

“Oh, no! That’s... a common misconception. Central Park, for instance, is home to many birds, _including_ indigo bunting! It’s actually quite fascinating!” This evoked a small but sincere smile from John, one that relaxed his face into something Finch rarely witnessed, almost peace, almost happiness.

“Tell me about it,” John replied, again with awkward hesitancy, unsure if he was pushing too much, settling back and closing his eyes again. Finch smiled himself, pleased, and began elucidating on the subject of birds in New York’s greater geography. After several minutes, where John would offer the occasional sound to indicate he was listening, he stopped responding, his breathing easy and regular. He’d fallen asleep, and appeared untroubled, for the moment. Perhaps given their conversation and subject matter, his subconscious would be more merciful that Finch’s had been. 

But in that vein, Finch pulled up a reclining chair and stretched out on it. He knew he would wake if John stirred; he was not a heavy sleeper. And for the moment, a pleasant feeling of warmth and almost happiness of his own filled him. Dangerous, this; the feeling of connectedness, of trust... of _friendship_ could easily lead to inadvertently revealing too much. That was a worry for another day. For now as he drifted off to get some still needed rest, he remembered the smile John had had. He filed it away, hoping that someday soon that particular rare bird would become commonplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like literally I almost couldn’t write this chapter because I’m a nurse and I know you’d NEVER move a trauma patient until you can stabilize their c-spine in a brace and then get a CT scan to make sure there’s no fracture of the neck but like there’s plenty of IFFY medical stuff on this show so we are ignoring best medical practice.
> 
> And so uuuuh you ever think about all the things that were done to John physically without his consent and how damaging that must have been to his psyche and how intuitive finch is to things that cause other people pain and yeah


End file.
